


Sick She-wolf

by withinmelove



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark-centric, Banter, Caretaking, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Gen, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, POV Sandor Clegane, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sandor Clegane Swears, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinmelove/pseuds/withinmelove
Summary: Arya falls sick and Sandor takes care of her until she's back on her feet.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39
Collections: Discord Community Archive, Game of Thrones





	Sick She-wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nothfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothfan/gifts).



> This takes place as Sandor is taking Arya to ransom her off to where Robb and Catelyn are at the Twin Towers.

Sandor has never been one to gripe and groan about illness or pain. Hell, he’s never been given the choice to do so. Not if he didn’t want to be viewed with pity--the burned little boy bleating about minor colds and aches. Especially after he’d been thrown out on his ear by his brother, Gregor, when their father died along with their sweet, little sister. 

No more of that shit.

Pity and disgust mixed with superstitious fear have a way of hardening one’s skin to thick leather. He’d found that charity quickly runs out as a child grows into adulthood. Sandor had found killing was an effective way to wipe that disgust and fear off others’ faces. The Lannisters had taken him on at a young age after he’d proven himself in the training yard, and it was there he killed his first man at the age of twelve. With a master like Twyin, there was no quarter or sympathy, even towards his own children, the cold-hearted fuck. So Sandor had simply learned to keep his trap shut. No point in drawing unneeded attention to himself.

When Arya the little she-wolf falls ill, though, she doesn’t have the same mentality. For all she denies feminine pursuits and manners, she had still been raised as a lord’s daughter. This meant she had the comfort and care of a maester on hand when sickness came around. 

Sandor notices her lethargy one morning as they arise to continue to the Freys’ Tower where her brother, Robb, is holding court. Or, rather, where he’s trying to bargain with that oily weasel, Walder Frey Sr. Sandor doesn’t pity the boy for his task.

Arya’s quietness is, at the same time, noteworthy as a gift. There’s no growling snark of killing him, or eyeing him up for a point of attack. Not that she has much of a chance with no training. Well, she _says_ a Braavosi trained her, for all the piss in the world that will be of any use to her. Finding him while he was dead drunk and unconscious would be about her only shot.

Another sign he notices immediately is the general malaise as she sags back against his chest once in the saddle of Stranger. Usually, she sits upright, leaning back into him.

It’s no surprise that she shoves his hand away when he presses the back of his hand to her face. 

“Don’t touch me,” Arya snaps, though not with her usual vigor. As he thought, she’s burning up with fever. A roving existence on the road like this with cold nights and chill, wet mornings has taken its toll.

“If you throw up, tell me. Otherwise, you’ll clean everything you puke on, including Stranger,” Sandor replies, ignoring her protesting words.

The morning and afternoon passed without incident, to Sandor’s relief. As much as Arya is annoying, he can relate to her stubbornness and the way she’s adapted to life on the road. She’s a tough little she-wolf and has proved her mettle. However, he’s no dainty maester, nor is he equipped as such a man would be. 

What deeply concerns him is when, by late afternoon, Arya starts shivering and trembling. There would be nothing worse than bringing the Starks one of their own dead, what with Eddard Stark’s rotting corpse scattered into the gutter. 

Much as he would far prefer to stay in the woods, studying Arya’s pale, strained expression tells him that an inn is necessary. There will be warmth and, more importantly, ready-made food close by. Sandor doesn’t want to leave her alone in this condition. He’s never been a sympathetic man, but he _is_ a pragmatic one. 

It’s not until dusk that they reach the inn. Arya is deeply asleep, although she still shivers despite the fever burning hot from her skin. Soon enough, they have a room to which he carries her. Looks trail after him at the picture they no doubt make. Sandor only hopes no one has taken too much note of who he is despite being hooded. 

No point in caring for her if they’re to be captured before she recovers. 

Sandor lays Arya out on the bed, once again pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. This time, she doesn’t answer him, merely groaning and shifting in response. Damn it all--she had to become ill in his charge. It’s just like the stubborn, annoying she-wolf to do that. 

He sighs heavily. He’s a soldier for fuck’s sake, not a maester. All he’s suited for is killing, not healing. 

Regardless...first thing’s first, with a blazing temperature like that, she’ll need some sort of drink and dinner to strengthen her body.

It’s a rather embarrassing thing that he feels too clumsy and large next to Arya. Granted, how many men wouldn’t feel that way when she’s so fucking tiny? For all her small size, she’s managed to be a large pain in his ass whenever possible. Still, the quietness of the room bears down on him. Now that she’s not muttering that bloody list under her breath anymore, the silence is oppressive.

Gently, he washes her face and throat with a damp cloth from the basin. She’s sunk deeper into sleep than he’s ever seen her. She’s almost cute now that she’s not glaring or has her lips pinched together. Then again, such sour expressions have helped her hold her own, and for that he’s thankful. This venture would have been hellish had he been with anyone else. 

Once he’s got her as settled as he can, he goes down to get dinner, bringing it back up to the room despite the innkeeper’s disapproving look. ‘The lout can shove that look up his ass,’ Sandor thinks to himself as he settles in to keep an eye on her and clean his gear.

Sandor is unsure of what to do with himself after he returns Arya to what remains of her family. If he were fool enough to believe in omens, he would surmise that the Stark brood is in for a dismal ending: The father dead, a second son near dead or otherwise paralyzed, with a third son only a babe not likely to survive infancy. A daughter held captive like a bird in the capital, and mother and eldest son having taken on the impossible task of challenging the Lannisters for power. Not to mention a bastard hidden away in the Night’s Watch. Now, the second daughter has succumbed to fever with a man who has no knowledge of healing or comforting. Terrible luck indeed for all the Starks. 

With any luck, he can sail to Braavosi and sell his sword for a living. The Lannisters will most assuredly not be his patrons anymore. 

A sigh is the only other sound in the room besides Arya’s slow breathing. First and foremost, he must do his best to make sure Arya is alive to return to her family before he plans for his future. In the morning, he’ll scout around a village or two for a midwife. Out here among the peasants, there’s unlikely to be a maester. Their type only attach themselves to lords or better, in his experience.

It’s late into the night while he’s cleaning his armor that Arya awakens. Her shifting about is his first clue to her returning to consciousness. 

“Back to the living, she-wolf?” he calls, watching as she stares at him with muzzy eyes. Still out of it--no surprise there. “If you’ve got to piss, there’s a pot under the bed, I’ll get you food.” Hauling himself to his feet, he makes sure to take his time getting food and drink downstairs. 

Sandor snorts to himself as he heads back to the room. Look at what The Hound has become: a nursemaid for the little beast of House Stark. When he re-enters, it’s to find that Arya’s laid herself out on the blankets in front of the fire she started in the fireplace. He sits down beside her, glad she’s woken up, at least.

Arya squints up at him, ever-suspicious even when sick. Good. Lessens her chance of trusting the wrong person and getting killed. Smart little girl, at least. 

“What are we doing here? You said we had to keep _hidden_ ,” she accuses, as if he’s done this for the pure fun of possibly blowing their cover. He misses the earlier silence with her running her mouth at him like this. 

“I couldn’t have you die on the road. Your mother would murder me for bringing her a corpse. Or do her best to have me killed, and I don’t need any more trouble. You’re enough of it alone.” 

He grins at her indignant swearing at him. Soon enough, she exhausts herself protesting and sinks back to quietness. Gently, he nudges her shoulder as her eyes close. “Eat first, then sleep. Tomorrow, I will get medicine.” 

Gratefully, she doesn’t fight him on this, too tired to do so. She eats and is back to sleep within minutes. Sandor cradles her in his arms before laying her back in bed. She flops limply, already far gone. He moves back to the hearth to grab the blanket and lays it over her. Exhausted himself from all the nannying, he strips down to his tunic and hose and settles into the bed with his back to her. The heat of her small, feverish body makes him regret not leaving her on the floor by the hearth. Tonight will be an uncomfortable rest.

In the morning, he wakes up to feel her pressed against his back, and he’s sweaty from the heated closeness. Sandor nudges her away so he can move down to the end of the bed and get up. Once dressed, he goes to the nearby stream to bathe, and then he’s off to find a midwife. He’ll eat once he’s found medicine for Arya. Annoyingly, it takes him nearly the whole damn day to find a medicine woman--there are no midwives to be had who are willing to come back to the inn with him. Sandor knows that it’s his face that causes them to turn away, mumbling that they are too old and frail to go that far. 

Finally, he is directed to a middle-aged woman declared by the villagers to be a medicine witch. He doesn’t fucking care what she’s called as long as she’ll bring down Arya’s fever. Besides, hunger is a gnawing pain in his stomach and he’s sick of these idiotic peasants and their quailing under his eyes.

The tiny hovel he is directed towards is tidy, with a large garden in the back, in which the witch is working when he arrives.

“Are you the witch, Emma?” he calls out as he waits at her gate. The woman turns, a basket held in the crook of her handless arm. She’s a stout, dark-skinned woman who cocks her head at him.

“I am. What do you need, burned man?” she answers. A mouth on her as well, then. 

“My wife is sick with fever at the inn. She needs medicine,” he replies. If Arya knew, she’d be disgusted at being called his wife, but daughter likely seems too out of place. No one will question a young bride traveling with her aged soldier husband. The witch nods and moves towards him, brushing past at the gate into her hovel. 

“I will take payment now and give you what herbs will best help her if she’s not too far gone.” 

Begrudgingly, Sandor pays the witch her due, impatient to be on their way. The fact that he’s been gone so long already has his skin itching to return. Normally, Arya and her little “Needle” could fend off an intruder or attack for a few moments, maybe, or perhaps even slay the person if she were lucky, but he doubted she would have the ability to do so while this sick. Thankfully, once Emma has gathered what she needs, they set off at a brisk walk. 

Emma the Witch is quick and efficient with Arya. She’s in her element evaluating Arya, who has woken up but still lies in bed. Arya tells the woman her body feels weak, aching, and painful. Emma is gentle and comforting to Arya, and firm in explaining the ingredients he’s to give her for the particular drink he must make to help lessen the fever and pain. 

After Emma leaves, Arya looks at him with a smug smile. How she manages to be so infuriating even while weak as a kitten is beyond him.

“What?” Sandor snaps. He’s no fucking servant, if that’s what Arya thinks. 

“Nothing,” she replies primlyShe closes her eyes, although the smile still remains on her face. Sandor stomps to the door, going down to the stable to groom Stranger. No doubt those horse-fuckers they call stable boys won’t know how to care for such an animal without their cocks. By the time he comes back in after brushing Stranger down and checking his hooves for any stones, Arya has already fetched food. 

“Why didn’t you leave me by the road?” Arya asks over their meal. Sandor grimaces. How to explain it? He’d felt protective towards her--not that he’ll ever say that aloud. The she-wolf deserves to live despite the fact she’s got the wrong name and blood in this game of thrones. 

Of course, to her face, he bluffs. “Come all this way just to let you die?” Sandor snorts. “Waste of my time doing that. I need you alive to ransom off to your family.” 

Arya nods, although he can tell she doesn’t believe him. He needs to get better at lying if a little girl can see through his words.

Roughly, he changes the topic, looking instead into the unlit hearth. “We’ll leave tomorrow since you’re well enough to walk. I’ll make enough of your drink to put in one of the waterskins so you can have it on the road.” 

“Thank you.” The words are spoken so softly he nearly misses hearing them. He makes a gruff noise to acknowledge the thanks. Likely the only one he’ll get this entire trip.

“Get better, she-wolf. No thanks needed,” he answers, to which Arya just smiles and nods. They both know they’ll be back at each other’s throats soon enough, but for now there’s a quiet, gentle peace between them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to both thenewjameswesley and Sable for editing this fic! I need all the help I can get to make my fics look good lol.
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